Now, through the south gate of the city, streamed forth ragged bands of hired soldiers, bent on escaping while they could. The planned attack on a Hatnorian colony had not even begun. A just reprisal on Nornos Kald’s part. A reprisal carried out in full by Sojan. But his business was not finished and, landing on part of an undamaged airfield, Sojan ordered the frightened commanding officer to take him to King Tremorn of Asno.
“I bring a message from my Emperor!” he cried when he was in the vast chamber which housed the king’s Court. All around him stood frowning nobles and servants, anxious to hear Sojan’s terms. In contrast to all the great display of royal pomp around him, the War Captain seemed almost bizarre, wearing his simple mercenary clothing, his strange shield on his back. Great pillars supported the roof and brilliant tapestries hung from the ceiling. Murals on the walls depicted scenes of battles, on land, water and in the air, and the proud expressions of the painted figures offered another contrast to the reality of defeat in the audience chamber.
“Speak your message,” ordered the king. “What are your terms? I admit that I am beaten!” Almost under his breath he added: “For the present!”
“For all time, sire, while a member of the Nornos family sits on the throne of Hatnor!” Sojan replied. “Now, do you wish to hear my terms?”
“Speak!” The king made a weary, defeated gesture, refusing to meet Sojan’s clear gaze.
“The first is that you acknowledge allegiance to Hatnor and pay a tribute of five hundred young men to train in our armies every tenth year. The second is that you disband any army you still have, save for policing your city. On signs of attack, you will notify the Empire, who will come to your aid.
“As a member of the Empire you will be subject to all laws and trading terms of the Empire and in times of major war shall enlist two thirds of your fighting strength in the armies of Hatnor and the remaining third if called upon. You will not make warships or weapons of war, save hand weapons, for your own use, but all existing warships and larger arms shall be sent direct to the capital. Do you recognise these terms?”
The king paused and, turning to his major-domo, whispered a few words to him. The man nodded.
“Yes, I recognise your terms.” He sighed.
“Then sign your name and oath to this document and seal it with your royal seal. Upon the breaking of your word, the lapse shall be punished according to the magnitude.”
Sojan handed the paper to a courtier who carried it to the king. The act of bowing to a king is unknown upon the planet Zylor; instead the subject places his right hand upon his heart to signify complete allegiance.
So it was that Sojan achieved his purpose. But more adventures were yet to come before he could return to his palace at Hatnor.
Chapter Nine
Revolt in Hatnor
“SOJAN, SOJAN!” THE call rang across the clear Zylorian sky as a small scout-ship veered towards the larger warship, the flagship of Sojan, second in command to the War King of Hatnor — Nornos Kald.
“Who are you?” Sojan’s lieutenant roared through a megaphone.
“I bring urgent tidings from the Court of Nornos Kald — the land is in turmoil!”
“Come alongside,” the lieutenant responded.
As the scout-ship drew alongside, an armed man jumped from it and rushed up the ladder to the platform whereon Sojan stood.
“Sojan! While the fleet has been at war, revolution has swept through the land. It was all part of the same plan. Nornos Kald has been deposed and a tyrant sits on the throne of Hatnor. There is a price upon your head and upon the heads of all whom you command.
“Flee now, Sojan, while you have the chance. Trewin the Upstart controls the city and half the Empire. The other half is in a state of unrest, unsure whether to support one faction or another!”
“I cannot flee while my War King rots in chains — tell me, who still cries ‘Loyalty to the Nornos family’?”
“None, openly, Sojan. A few are suspected, but they are still powerful nobles and even Trewin dare not arrest them without cause.”
Sojan’s face became grim and he clenched his hand upon his sword hilt.
“Lun!” he cried. “Order the fleet to turn about and adjust to Speed 1!”
A look of surprise crossed his lieutenant’s face. “We’re not running, Sojan?”
“Do as I say!”
“Turn about and adjust to Speed 1!” Lun shouted through his megaphone. At once the great fleet turned gracefully about and adjusted, speed by speed, until it was flying at maximum velocity. There were puzzled looks in the eyes of many of Sojan’s captains, but they obeyed his order.
“Tell them to set a course for Poltoon,” he ordered Lun. Lun did so and soon every ship was heading south — to the steaming jungles and burning deserts of the Heat Lands.
“Why do we sail for Poltoon, Sojan?” asked Lun.
But Sojan’s only reply was, “You will see,” and he resumed his earnest conversation with the messenger who had brought him the news.
On the third day they were sailing at No. 1 speed over a vast belt of jungle, seemingly impenetrable. But Sojan’s eyes, less atrophied by civilised living, caught what he had been looking for — a patch of green, lighter than the dark green which predominated.
“STOP!” he roared. “Stop and hover — no-one is to drop anchor.”
The flying machines of the Zylorian nations are usually very similar to our airships. The gondola is supported by steel hawsers depending from the main gasbag. The propeller is adjustable and can be slung either fore or aft of the ship — it is usually slung aft. They are steered by two methods, a rudder aft plus manipulation of the propeller. A normal-sized warship usually mounts five guns — two very powerful ones fore and aft, a smaller one on the captain’s platform and two mounted on a platform on top of the huge gas-hull. The gunners reach this platform by means of ladders from the deck to the platform. This position is extremely dangerous and if ever the gas-container is hit it is rare for a gasbag gunner ever to escape.
The ships stopped to hovering position as ordered and while they waited, Sojan had his ship drop downwards, nearer and nearer to the little patch of green which became a small clearing, just large enough to land one ship, but for a fleet of over fifty ships to land here was impossible. With a slight bump the ship dropped to the ground and the anchor was thrown into the soft grass. Sojan ordered that the gasbags be deflated. They could always be inflated again as every ship carried a large supply of compressed gas-cylinders.
Now the ship was only a third of the size and was dragged into the undergrowth which was not at all thick. Sojan told his crew of eight to get to work and chop down all the small growth but to leave the huge forest giants standing. This they did and very soon the clearing widened and as it did so a new ship dropped down until the fifty were all deflated and covering a large area of ground under the trees. The cabins made excellent living quarters so there was no difficulty about housing the men. Rations were also plentiful and a spring of fresh water was nearby.
“I know this part of the country well,” Sojan told his men that night, “the inhabitants are for the most part friendly. While they are not civilised, they are not savages and I believe they will give us some help. But now we sleep and tomorrow we shall rouse the tribes!”
Next morning, Sojan with a small party of his men set off for the village of his barbarian friends.
The chief greeted him warmly and was interested in Sojan’s need for soldiers. “You know me and my people, Soyin,” he said, using the nearest Poltoonian equivalent of Sojan’s name. “We all love to fight — and if there’s a bit of loot thrown in, who’s to say ‘no’?”
“Then I can depend on you?”
“By all means — I shall form a council immediately and recruit as many of my fellow chiefs as possible. Between us we should muster a few thousand fighting men.”
By Zylorian standards, where most nations are comparatively small to Earth nations, a thousan
d men is quite a large number.
“Then have them ready by the third day, my friend,” Sojan replied. “Blood will stain the usurper’s robes before the month is gone.”
Chapter Ten
The Hordes Attack
THE DAY OF the invasion was drawing nearer and Sojan began to work harder and harder in the training of his barbarian horde. The Poltoonians were enthusiastic, for they had been on good terms both with Hatnor and Sojan. Spies brought word that there was more and more unrest in the outlying provinces of Hatnor, whose peoples were seeing increasingly what the rule of Trewin the Upstart meant in day-to-day reality.
“The time is ripe to strike,” Sojan told his captains and the wild chiefs. “We must invade now or our cause and our self-respect will be lost and we will never again have the opportunity to win Hatnor back from the usurper and restore Nornos Kald to his rightful throne!”
His airships, camouflaged by the mighty trees of the steaming Poltoonian jungle, were provisioned and ready to do battle. His captains were word-perfect in his plan of invasion. Everyone had his orders and knew how to carry them out.
A day later a horde, consisting of thousands of mounted barbarians led by Sojan himself, moved towards the north — and Hatnor!
Two days later, the faster-moving airships rose into the air like a swarm of hornets armed with incredibly powerful stings. As they passed the horde, the ships slowed to minimum speed and followed, flying low, just above them. In another day they would arrive at the boundaries of Hatnor — and the blood of all who opposed them would run in the gutters.
Sojan was sure that very little innocent blood would flow as the army would be on his side. It was the criminal population, promised everything by Trewin, who had planned this revolution for years, egged on by a few evil nobles, who had risen and overthrown their elected War King while the bulk of his army was defeating those who had been persuaded to lead them into a trap in the outer province.
There would always be unrest in any régime. Sojan knew this. But at present there was no cause for the people to grumble about their ruler. As so often happened, the unrest had been caused by a power-seeker intent on turning a nation into a bloodbath for his own selfish ends.
Now in a few short weeks the once happy people groaned beneath the tyrant’s yoke, no man, woman or child able to count themselves safe from his oppression.
Sojan was determined to get rid of the usurper and do everything in his power to free his friend and War King Nornos Kald. He looked back with pride from where he rode his myat at the head of the horde. They had not been hard to train, for they were magnificent fighters, but they had been harder to organise. Now they were ready.
Not only men made up the barbarian army, their womenfolk rode beside them, armed with knife, sword, shield and spear. In their left hands they carried charm sticks to keep their men and themselves from harm. Most of these women were extremely beautiful and the armour they wore did not detract from their good looks in anyway, rather it enhanced them.
No longer under cover of the trees, the horde moved chiefly at night. Sojan did not want Trewin to suspect anything until they were as close as possible to the Hatnorian border.
At last they reached the outer boundaries of the Empire and found little opposition here. But Sojan did not relax. It would be later, when news of their invasion reached the city of Iklon, that the fighting would begin. Sojan was finding it difficult to keep the barbarians in order; they had decided that anyone was an enemy who was not fighting with them and they were confused by Sojan’s forbidding them to loot the settlements. But after a council meeting with the chiefs he was sure that they would be reliable, at least for a time.
Two days later found them at the gates of Iklon. Gates which were securely locked and guarded.
The barbarians were all for laying violent siege to the place, but Sojan realised that Iklon could hold out against such tactics for an eternity.
“You are forgetting our ships,” he said, “we have the rest of the Hatnorian air force under our control. The people of Iklon will not last as long as they hope!”
A few hours later Sojan’s flagship sailed gracefully down for him and, with the pilot’s skilful manipulation of his gas canister, climbed up again when he was aboard. Then the flagship returned to where the rest of the fleet waited.
Sojan raised his megaphone and called instructions to the nearest ships. Soon orders were shouted from ship to ship and the fleet set its engines in motion.
A few hours later the flagship and a dozen or so of the larger battlecraft broke from the main fleet and dipped downwards towards the great city square. Aboard were hundreds of soldiers, the most reliable of the barbarian horde, and as soon as the ships reached the ground, not without some opposition, they swarmed out across the square to engage the rather frightened militia who barred their way.
Next the streets surrounding the square were filled with wild cries. Strangely woven banners were raised against a background of flashing steel. The ships overhead could hear the muffled poppings of air-pistols and -rifles. It was impossible to use the heavier artillery against the troops below and it became quickly obvious that they were not needed.
Into the square the barbarians poured. Soon it was impossible to tell friend or foe as the fighting surged back and forth, spreading outwards into the streets, into the very houses themselves. Meanwhile more of Sojan’s troops were landing outside the city. Attacked from the inside as well as at their walls, the tyrant’s men were uncertain where to concentrate their forces and while they wavered, the barbarians took the opportunity to batter in one of the minor gateways and clamber over the inner wall.
With a huge roar the Poltoonians burst into the city and met the half-hearted defences of Trewin’s men.
The streets were slippery with blood, echoing with the ring of steel and the cries of the wounded.
Sojan was in front, hewing and hacking with his great blade, his strange shield held before his face and upper body, his long hair streaming behind him and a grim smile upon his lips. “To the Palace, to the Palace,” he cried. “Take the Palace and the battle’s won!”
But before they were forced to fight for the final prize, Iklon’s ruler, a mild-featured little man whom Trewin had forced to join him, came rushing down the steps of his residence screaming for the end of conflict, throwing himself to his knees and begging Sojan for his life.
Much to the surprise of the barbarians, Sojan laughed and raised the little man up. “You broke your oath to your War King whose only crime against his people was to bring them peace! What should your punishment be?”
“I — it — it’s for you to determine, great War Prince. I had no choice but to obey the usurper. He holds my daughter in prison. It is how he made so many of the Empire’s nobles obey him. I do not ask you to spare my life but I beg you to save hers.”
“If I save her, will you swear another oath, to follow the orders of Nornos Kald or, until he is free, to follow mine?”
“I will, great prince.”
“You must also pay a tribute to my allies, the Poltoonian Horde. I will instruct them to cease from violence if you will agree.”
“I do so agree!”
“Then I will take what are left of your men and fleet and add it to my own. I will instruct the horde to leave you in safety.”
And so it was with each of the cities and nations Sojan reconquered. Like a tidal wave, the army surged over their enemies in the direction of Hatnor.
So swiftly did armies and cities fall that it soon became apparent that Trewin the Upstart was holding most of his nobles to ransom in one way or another. By the time they reached the Empire’s capital, they received almost no resistance. Leading his men up the great steps of the Imperial Palace Sojan raised his sword in triumph. “Soon Nornos Kald will be free to take his place at the head of his War Council!” cried the mercenary-turned-prince.
His men cheered and surged forward. But the doors would not open to their thunderous knoc
king. Sojan ordered the battering rams brought up.
Once — twice — thrice — the battering rams crashed against the ancient timbers. There was a cheer as the main door flew open, but the cheer was suddenly stifled. Sojan and his men drew back in horror.
Chapter Eleven
A Warrior’s Justice
THERE STOOD NORNOS Kald, their War King, worn and in rags, a filthy stubble on his face. And surrounding him, a body of Trewin’s personal guard. Behind them stood Trewin himself, stroking his blue-black beard.
“Come another step closer, Sojan, and I’ll be forced to kill your precious War King!” he called.
Sojan and his men were in a quandary, what were they to do? It was check, if not checkmate, for them.
An idea sprang into Sojan’s mind.
Aiming a pistol at Nornos Kald, he pulled the trigger. The Emperor fell to the ground with a moan and lay still.
“There, dog, I’ve done your dirty work for you!” Sojan laughed.
In a rage Trewin fired blindly at Sojan. The Swordsman flung himself to the ground and the bullet whistled by to catch one of his men in the shoulder.
Lifting his own pistol, Sojan fired twice. Trewin, in the act of fleeing up the staircase, flung out his arms and toppled down the great stairway, blood trickling from his mouth. He landed with a thud at the feet of his guards.
With a cry, Sojan, his sword glistening in the light of the torches suspended around the hall, charged for the astounded guards who, without thinking, threw down their weapons and fled.
Nornos Kald picked himself up from the floor with Sojan’s help.
“A clever move, Sojan,” he grinned, “but it took some clever shooting, too.”
He examined the hole which Sojan’s bullet had made in his coat.
“It was a minor risk, sir. If I had not taken it, the city would even now be in the hands of Trewin.”
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